


The Time Traveler’s Prerogative

by weathervaanes



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, De-Aged Derek, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Pack Bonding, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 21:04:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1913811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weathervaanes/pseuds/weathervaanes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of "117", Derek doesn't magically transform back into his twenty-five-year-old body. Instead, he's stuck as a sixteen-year-old for an unknown amount of time. So the pack has to learn to deal with it.</p>
<p>-0-</p>
<p>Stiles looks down at his hands and considers it.  “If we could time travel, like my dad said,” he starts, “if you could find Derek in my dad's office wrapped up in my dad's coat with his face all full of ash not even able to look his sister in the eye, and you could be there for him, and not leave him alone, and not let him take the fall for everything Kate did to him, would you?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Time Traveler’s Prerogative

**Author's Note:**

> We are posting this today because the new episode is going to come out and ruin any and all assumptions about canon that we have made in this story. We apologize for the variations upon canon you are sure to find if you read this story post July 7th. Also (although we both love Malia), we have ignored the apparent Stiles/Malia relationship in canon and explain it away within the fic.
> 
> This story is super anti-plot. We have mentions of plot-like things happening, but it's mostly scattered, and the text is mostly Sterek-oriented.
> 
> (And finally, despite what the title says, there's no actual time traveling.)

“I get that it's difficult,” Scott says, “but we went to Mexico for him—you went to Japan for Stiles!”

“This isn't something that can be solved with a heist.” Deaton shakes his head. “It'd be months of searching Scotland for those archives and honestly, Scott, you may not realize how much more difficult things can be without Derek's money quietly smoothing the way. It's just not feasible.”

“Not to mention the fact that we aren't even sure we could find anything,” Lydia sighs. “It could all be for nothing.”

“I can't.” Scott shakes his head. “I can't just accept that we can't do anything because it's too hard. Derek… He's my responsibility now.”

Stiles lays a hand on the back of Scott's neck and leans in.  ”Scott, this might be the best thing for him. Think about it.”

“How?” Scott barks. “That’s ridiculous!”

“It's not.” Lydia shakes her head.  ”Scott, he spent all those years alone, blaming himself for anything. If we just let this happen then—well, we can take care of him, now. Before he gets all hard and guarded.”

Scott frowns.  ”You’re suggesting we just leave him like this?”

“He’d forget about Jennifer,” Lydia says softly.  ”He’d forget about—about Aiden and Allison and Isaac.”

“And Erica and Boyd,” Stiles adds in just as quiet a tone.  ”It might be good.  We can help him through the loss of his family, help him adjust before he goes stone cold.”

Scott sets his jaw.  ”We’d have to tell him that Peter killed Laura.  He deserves to know that.”

“He’d try to kill Peter.”

“What do we tell him about Cora?” Scott demands.  ”He was the only one who knew where she went!”

Stiles rubs the back of his neck.  ”Yeah, but--”

Deaton lifts his head.  ”Argentina,” he says.  ”Córdoba. So that’s not the issue.  The issue is: can we make him the same, just, loyal Derek he was before?”

“We can't make him anything,” Lydia says, “and eventually he should know—at least about Erica and Boyd, it'd be wrong of us to keep them from him. But we can be here for him, whomever he ends up being.”

Scott continues shaking his head. “Isn't giving up just—just killing Derek? Just giving up on him like that?”

“He might come back to himself eventually, Scott,” Deaton tells him. “It’s just that—we don’t currently have the resources we need to put him back the way he was. I think you have an invaluable opportunity here to do good for this boy. Now he’s your pupil, the way you were once his.”

Scott stands, pulling a hand through his hair. “So, what? We get him enrolled in high school, tell everyone his name is—”

“Miguel,” Stiles says with a smirk. Then Scott glares and he looks down at his hands. “Sorry.”

“I’m just not understanding,” Scott sighs, “how you want us to do this.”

Stiles looks down at his hands and considers it. “If we could time travel, like my dad said,” he starts, “if you could find Derek in my dad's office wrapped up in my dad's coat with his face all full of ash not even able to look his sister in the eye, and you could be there for him, and not leave him alone, and not let him take the fall for everything Kate did to him, would you?”

Scott is quiet for a long moment, but in that silence, Stiles know he’s got him. “That’s a dirty trick,” Scott says softly, but he nod. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, let’s—figure it out.”

 

* * *

 

He’s a transfer student, from Mexico, living with Scott and his mom because his parents work all the time. That’s the story, at least. They actually call him Derek, though, and explain away to Scott’s father the ridiculous name change that Stiles invented as just trying to fuck with him. It’s not hard, and they make sure Derek settles into the guest room and starts taking classes.

He’s sixteen, torn from his reality at the end of his sophomore year of high school, so Scott suggests they just let him finish it out.

“It’s not even second semester,” Stiles argues. “It’ll be easier if he’s in our year, anyway.” He nudges Derek in the ribs with his elbow. “Besides, you turn seventeen in a couple months. You’ll be fine. And Lydia and I will help you.”

Derek doesn’t argue.

For the most part, Derek seems really stoic about the whole thing. He doesn’t remember the life he previously lived as an adult, so he doesn’t know that he wants to go back to it. He doesn’t remember New York, doesn’t remember anything he might have possibly done there, and it doesn’t help that nobody in the pack knows anything either.

Scott, Stiles, and Lydia curl their lives around Derek. Pack has meant so many different things to them, right now it means taking care of their own.

Malia still says things like she sees them, so she stares at them for the better part of dinner once before tugging on Stiles' sleeve. “Why do you treat him like a pup? He's just a year younger than us.”

Scott stares but Stiles lays his hand over hers, smiles. “I'll explain later.”

“She's right,” Derek sighs, “I know you all do. It's stupid; I'm not a kid.”

“You are,” Lydia says, using her chopsticks to pick up a piece of pork and put it in her mouth. She doesn’t look at Derek. “You’re sixteen years old.”

“You’re barely older than I am,” Derek protests grumpily. “I’ve been a wolf longer than you’ve been a banshee.”

“And I’ve been a banshee longer than you’ve been sixteen,” Lydia says with a deceptive smile.

“We're not trying to be patronizing,” Scott says. “Just tell us all right? We'll do better.”

The rest of the dinner continues in the same awkward manner in which everything has and Stiles meets Kira's eyes over Scott's head, silently agreeing that something must be done.

Stiles calls for a pack meeting the following Saturday. Derek is barely settled into his role at school, consistently uncomfortable, and everyone can still feel the tension whenever he’s around. He’s a new pack member and they have to make sure he doesn’t feel like fleeing; they have to make sure he’s pack, that they all are.

He uses Kira and Malia. Kira is the one who takes Scott, Malia the one who takes Derek. She’s sure not to let him escape. Stiles handles Lydia. All he has to do is go into her house, get her into a pair of leggings and a loose shirt and some sneakers for once, and then they’re all tumbling out of various vehicles in the parking lot of the Beacon Heights Paintball Arena.

Derek glares as he rights himself. “She kidnapped me from my bedroom!”

Scott looks kind of dazed. Stiles hadn’t asked what kind of tactics Kira had been planning on using on Scott to get him to come here, but now he assumes they weren’t quite as innocent as his with Lydia.

“I know,” Stiles says to Derek through a grin. “That's why I sent her, Malia gets shit done.”

“He fights well. I like him.”

Stiles nods, approving. Malia is starting to appreciate people for their qualities, without the need of bonds.

“Two teams,” he says, leading everyone inside.

“Boys versus girls?” Kira asks and Scott’s eyes go wide.

“We’ll lose,” Scott says.

“Exactly.”

Stiles laughs. “We’ll do more than one round.”

It’s a good afternoon. They play through hours of paintball and by the end of it they’re exhausted and sore but they’ve had the time of their life. They drag themselves to a pizza parlor after that, pouring themselves into the stiff booths and eating a ridiculous amount.

But it’s—good. It’s pack. And Stiles can’t help but be proud of the light in Derek’s eyes, the easy expression on his face. He belongs.

Malia stands and she cocks her head with her eyes trained on Stiles in a way, he supposes, some movie she saw suggested was subtle. It isn't. But the pack knows she's making an effort and turn their eyes away as Stiles follows her.

“You okay?”

She rolls her eyes. “You said not to talk about mating in front of others, but you're being stupid. Again.”

Stiles blinks. “I thought we talked about this—I thought you and Lydia.”

“Yes,” she says, and she shakes her head. “You're very dumb. I just meant you're not seeing it, the way Derek keeps begging for you.”

He all but slaps his hand onto her forehead. “Are you feeling okay? Is it normal for coyotes to hallucinate after pizza?”

She bats his hand away. “It’s completely natural in animals for any combination of mates—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, “I know, you gave me the homosexual tendencies speech already when you and Lydia started having sad, athletic sex.”

“There’s nothing sad about our mating,” Malia says with her nose in the air. “She mourns for Allison sometimes, that’s all.”

Stiles waves a hand. “That’s fine, whatever, tell me details later—are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“Scott is Derek’s Alpha now,” Malia says, and she takes his hand because he’s taught her that’s a gesture of affection, of attention. “So Scott is important to him, but you’re a friend, more than any of the others. Kira intimidates him, I worry him, and he’s already seen Lydia take his sister’s role. He looks at you like he’s—thirsty.”

Stiles blinks. “Yeah, okay, we should get you to bed.”

She blinks back. “I'm sure Lydia wouldn't mind—”

“No,” Stiles says too quickly. “I mean hell yeah—but no. I mean you're obviously seeing things.”

“Maybe, but I don't ignore scents the way Scott is trying so hard to.”

He doesn’t want to ask Scott. He isn’t going to. So instead, he’s just going to carry on with his day-to-day activities and pretend that Malia isn’t crazy.

Derek Hale was—in his 25-year-old body—a Greek god. Fit and tan and the beard was exceptional. He was endearing in a lot of ways, his hands were nice, his shoulders too, and he was—experienced. Aside from Kate and Jennifer, Stiles figured there had to be more, others in New York. Derek would talk about past experiences sometimes, distantly. Stiles never thought that much of it. His main focus was Derek’s body, his wit, his passion. The more tolerant Stiles became of Derek, the easier it was to lose himself over him. And sure, maybe he gave 16-year-old Derek a little visual pat down when they pulled him out of the tomb, but that doesn’t mean Stiles has any interest at all in screwing the guy’s life up even more. If he comes back, if they figure out a way to get him back, Derek would kill him, probably.

But now he can't stop thinking about Malia's words every time he's in the same room with Derek. Malia has no understanding of or patience for gossip, she only says things that are true when she feels they need to be said—which is always.

So now Stiles is trying to sit across from Derek in Biology and trying not to feel the guy's eyes on him.

 

* * *

Kate will come back. Whoever took the money from Peter will come back. There will, eventually, be chaos and strife and sleepless nights, but right now Stiles is wondering when he can just get a donut.

Derek is annoyingly good at lacrosse. Finstock puts him in because he runs well during P.E. So, he’s there, always, and Stiles is good at ignoring him when he’s meant to be focusing on other things. Derek, similarly, is attentive to the goal of the game. It gives him a distraction, Stiles thinks, from everything else. It gives him a chance to be normal.

They’re working after school at Scott’s house. It’s going to be—a thing, now. Pack bonding over homework because, for once, there’s nothing else to do. It’s so eerily quiet that Stiles is jumping at every little noise, because he knows something has to come down on them eventually.

Derek brings him a soda.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, and he licks the foam from his arm when he inevitably spills some after he opens it. Scott’s across the room with Kira, Lydia and Malia are sharing a chair, and Stiles is sitting on the ground so he can write on a worksheet using the coffee table. Derek is sitting behind him on the couch, and Stiles wishes Malia had never said anything. Because he looks up at Scott and Scott is making a face directly at him. He knows that face. That’s the smell face.

“Stiles,” Derek's voice startles him. “Can—mind if I go with you to pick up lunch?”

“Um.” Stiles swallows and tries to look around for help but everyone keeps their eyes intently away. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Stiles is shaky with Derek beside him in the car. He can't deny he likes the guy, if for a whole new set of reasons than he did before.

“Can I—will you tell me something honestly, if I ask?”

Stiles licks his lips. “We haven't lied to you, Derek.”

The boys nods. “I know, but—did we—when I was older, the guy you know, were you close?”

“We were becoming friends,” Stiles says after a moment. “Some stuff had gone down, and I had been—compromised in a lot of different ways. And he—you—had never really been the brotherly type before that. But the older you, he really came through.”

Derek nods slowly. “That’s good. I’m glad.”

“You’re not a bad guy, Derek,” Stiles sighs. “Bad shit happens to you. Happened. But hey, why not take a fresh start where you can get it?”

He's parked now and he turns to give what he hopes is a comforting smile to Derek, but when Derek does look over, he surges forward and kisses him. It's impatient, that's how Stiles would describe it, hard and nervous. Like maybe Derek thinks if he does well enough he won't be rejected. He's not wrong.

Stiles puts his hands on Derek’s face, not trying to push him away, just trying to get him to slow down, to calm down. But Derek only kisses him eagerly, impatiently, and Stiles lets him. He gets a hand on the back of Derek’s neck, opens his mouth for him, and it’s easy to just kiss him without worrying, without thinking.

When Derek pulls back, he looks nervous. Scared.

Stiles licks his lips.

“That was the first time, wasn’t it?” Derek asks, his voice shaking. “We never—not before now.”

“No.” Stiles shakes his head. “We didn’t.”

“Good. I didn’t want to think I’d forgotten that.”

Stiles swallows tightly. “Do you wanna get some food now?”

Derek nods. “Yeah. Let’s.”

 

* * *

He thinks Scott knows after just a few days, and it isn't like him to keep things from his best friend but he can't help but think he's doing something wrong. Derek might still come back to himself, may come around to question why Stiles thought he had any right to this. And the thing about Derek before he was buried under all that senseless guilt is… He's sweet.

He holds Stiles’ hand and he kisses him and they go out. They see movies and they eat dinner together and when they do pack things, Derek is always there, right by his side, ready to do whatever Scott and Stiles tell him to do. They run together, and Stiles climbs trees and Derek follows him up into the branches, passing him inevitably, but then Derek doesn’t let him fall, and Stiles has to cling to a sixteen-year-old’s innocence and remember that what he remembers Derek being—hard and gruff and angry—there’s still potential for those things to spurt in this Derek. And he doesn’t want that at all.

So Stiles is over at Scott’s house a lot now. Because Derek looks at him unabashedly, takes him in with his eyes like he’s some museum piece, and Stiles gets to look too.

“Should we tell your dad?” Derek asks one evening when they’re sitting on Scott’s couch, watching television. Malia’s around too, in the kitchen, but Lydia’s out and Scott and Kira are gone as well.

Stiles scratches the back of his head. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Derek says.

“Do you want to?”

“I want to be able to be over there without him giving me weird looks.” Derek squirms. “He knew me. And I don’t think he trusted me.”

“You were a twenty-five-year-old stud,” Stiles says with a smirk. “I think he might have had good reason.”

“You trust me.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” He moves, scooting a little closer. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, Der.”

“We could be having sex.”

Stiles stops breathing a little bit. In the kitchen he can hear Malia giving a snort, the sound of her shoes being thrown aside, and the back door banging open and closed.

“That… That is not a question.”

“I.” Derek blushes and looks up at him with those ridiculous eyes. “Could we? Be having sex?”

Stiles knows a lot. He knows that Derek had sex with Kate Argent, lost his virginity to her after having his heart destroyed by his own actions against Paige. He knows that it fucked him up, how Kate used sex to intimidate him, manipulate him, make sure he did whatever she wanted him to. Stiles isn’t good at handling fragile things, and he’s pretty sure that Derek’s sex life is fragile.

“Do you want to?” Stiles asks.

“Yeah,” Derek says on an exhale.

Stiles breathes for a moment, still looking at the TV. It’s probably better, now, not to beat around the bush. It’s probably better to just—”What about Kate?”

Derek leans away, pulls his legs up to his chest. “I—you and Scott said. I trust what you said. And when she had me open the vault for her, when she tried to use the Triskelion, I could tell that's all she wanted from me. She'd just used me.”

“I just—”

Derek huffs. “Look if you don't want to—”

“Oh I want to.” Stiles laughs. “I've wanted to—always.”

Derek moves in to kiss him again. This time it's soft and shy and somehow that gets Stiles extremely hot.   “I want to too,” Derek says with a stupid boyish grin.

“Yeah?” Stiles asks.

“Yeah,” he affirms, and he kisses Stiles more firmly this time, putting a hand in his hair. He’s assertive in this, aggressive even, and he pushes forward to get Stiles onto his back.

Stiles settles his hands on Derek’s sides. “Oh, did you mean now?”

Derek shrugs. “I have a room.”

Stiles smirks, ready to launch into some witty banter, but he never gets the chance. Scott and Kira choose that moment to enter through the front door, and Derek doesn’t move, stays where he is on top of Stiles, smirking in equal measure down at him.

Scott makes an abused noise and if Stiles could see him, he would think his face would mimic that quality of the sound.

Everyone is frozen for a few more seconds.

“Derek! Get off Stiles,” Scott orders.

“I'm trying.” Derek smirks, but he does move away and sits again.

“Jesus,” Scott sighs, and he tugs Kira into the kitchen. “Don’t do anything!” he calls back. “We’re getting drinks!”

Sure enough, they walk in a moment later with cans of soda, and Scott steals the remote from Stiles’ hand. Stiles feels warm, happy, and Derek presses up next to him, their thighs touching. He’s perfectly content to let this moment carry him through to the end of the day, but one look at Scott’s face and he knows something’s happened.

“What is it?” he asks, moving forward.

“We think Kate’s back in town,” Scott says, glancing at Derek. “And we’re pretty sure she knows who took the money.”

“She wants it?”

Scott shrugs. “I'm more worried about her having something else planned.”

“Really,” Stiles snorts, “because I'm pretty strapped for cash.”

“Even if we got the money back,” Scott reminds him, “it's Derek's. And Cora's. And Peter's.”

“I’ll share,” Derek says cheekily and Stiles elbows him.

“We have to be prepared,” Scott sighs. “We have to—we don’t know what she’s going to send after us. It could be that she’s coming alone, but—but now she knows we have Derek on our side, so it’s as easy to bring us down.”

“Mr. Argent is coming back,” Kira adds. “He sent Scott an email this morning, that he was on his way back to the States. He’ll be more help.”

“What about Isaac?” Stiles asks.

Derek perks up. “Who's Isaac?”

Scott licks his lips. “A friend. But he's not. Coming back that is. Chris said that he's doing well, he's finally learning French. Might stay there for college too. He asked that we not get in touch with him, keep him out of it.”

Stiles nods. “Sure. So—what do we do? Want me to tell my dad Kate’s back?”

“We should tell him to keep a look out. Otherwise it’s not very fair. We don’t want him caught off guard.”

“Agreed,” Stiles says. “Okay, I’ll tell him when I see him tonight. Until then?”

“Until then, we just have to wait.” He looks between Stiles and Derek. “You’re not spending the night, I’m assuming.”

He shakes his head. “Dad’s night off.”

He gives Stiles a warning look but nods after a moment. “All right. Keep in touch.”

 

* * *

Once they're in Stiles' room, everything is different, Derek is hesitant and it makes Stiles hesitate too.

“Derek,” he says quietly, “you can take it back. It's okay to take it back.”

“I’m not taking it back,” he says with a smile.

“Okay.”

“I’m just—adjusting.”

Stiles sticks his hands in his pockets. “Yeah. I mean, just a little while ago, you and Kate were—”

“And my family was alive,” Derek says, jaw clenched. “So.”

“Hey, I didn’t mean—”

Derek shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. It’s—” He exhales, steps into Stiles’ space. “I don’t want to think about her. At all. I want to think about this.” He kisses Stiles, slow and patient. It’s searching, asking, and Stiles is falling into it easily, without having to run it through in his head a million times.

“It shouldn't,” Stiles whispers, “be about forgetting bad things.”

“Shouldn't it?” Derek mutters as he kisses down Stiles' throat.

“Says who?”

“Says me,” Derek says, hands firm on Stiles’ sides. “It’s about forgetting bad things and welcoming new, better ones. It’s about letting go of the fact that my only sexual experience was with a horrible woman who used me and who I thought loved me and instead made me the reason my whole family is gone.”

Stiles can feel him break. He can feel Derek just come apart, just like that. The words aren’t even all the way out by the time Derek crumples into his arms, and Stiles brings him over the bed, lets Derek sob into his shoulder. He strokes Derek’s hair, his back, keeps him close. He doesn’t move until Derek stops shaking.

It’s quiet. They’re lying on the bed, Derek half on top of Stiles, face tucked into his neck. Stiles keeps his arms where they are around Derek.

“How did he forgive himself?” Derek asks eventually. “The older me?”

Honestly, Stiles isn’t even sure he ever had. But he’s not going to say that. “It took a while,” is what he says instead. “But I think having friends helped.”

Derek's breathing calms, he's quiet for so long that Stiles is almost sure he's asleep. But he squirms in his arms and cranes his neck back to kiss Stiles' jaw. “Do you miss him? Me?”

Stiles smiles. “Well, he certainly wasn’t doing this with me.”

“Stiles.”

“I don’t know,” he sighs. “I—he was very loyal to Scott. He just wanted to help, always. And I think that’s a trait that you share. I think it’s a trait that we didn’t lose. And that was the best part about him, so. Sometimes. I’m not sure.”

“If we find a way to bring him back, do you think I’ll remember this?”

Stiles sighs. “I don’t know.”

“Would you want me to?”

“Yeah,” Stiles admits. “Yeah, I would want you to remember. Because he—didn’t have a good way of communicating his feelings. And maybe if he had known more effectively that we were there for him, it would’ve been easier.” He looks down at Derek. “Do you want to remember everything?”

“I don’t know. Because I don’t know what it is I would’ve forgotten.”

“If you do, you know, turn back,” Stiles hums, “I hope you at least remember that we—that I'm here for you.”

Derek laughs. “Is that you being romantic?”

“I try.”

Derek stays for dinner that night with Stiles and his dad. The Sheriff is surprisingly accepting of the supernatural weirdness in Derek’s case. He sympathizes, Stiles thinks, with a lot of what Derek is going through, and even though he doesn’t understand it, he knows it’s hard, has to know that Derek has been placed in an awful position, and so he’s—good. He’s doing his best, and Stiles appreciates that from him.

Stiles drives him back over the Scott’s. Derek kisses him goodbye in the car, hand on the back of his neck, and then he goes, waving with a smirk planted proudly on his face.

 

* * *

Stiles thinks it’s going to be easier to introduce Chris to Derek than it actually is. He figures he’ll just say, _Hey, this is Chris Argent, he’s one of the good guys_. They’ve told Derek before, how he’s Allison’s father, that he’s Kate’s brother. It was all fine in abstract, but then he actually shows up.

Having them in the same room together, Stiles knows after only a second that they’re going to have a problem.

“Derek,” Chris says, and it’s on a short exhale. It’s surprise, shock, confusion. They told him, but maybe he didn’t expect—“We’d never met.”

“No,” Derek says. “We haven’t.”

Chris clears his throat. “I can help. I can take Derek back to Europe with me, find the information Deaton needs.”

Derek shakes his head. “I'm fine actually.”

Scott takes a step forward. “Derek, he just wants to help.”

“I appreciate that,” Derek says, “but if I'm meant to…be the way I was, I'm sure it'll happen.”

“Maybe this is the way to _make_ it happen,” Chris says. “We can’t just cling to hope of some higher being zapping you back to your old self.”

“I don’t think it was meant to happen because of _you_ ,” Derek says stiffly, “so if it’s going to happen, it’ll happen another way. And I’m still not holding my breath.” He looks over his shoulder, directly at Stiles, and Stiles just stares. “It’s fine. This isn’t about me anyway. It’s about catching Kate.”

Scott agrees that Chris is their best chance of finding Kate, that he'll know where to start digging for old haunts, hiding places, and allies she might have.

Derek sticks behind Scott and when they part, he follows Stiles.

“Dad said it's okay if you want to stay over tonight,” he whispers. “On the couch but...he'll be leaving for patrol around eleven.”

Derek nods. “Yeah, I—I’d like that.”

“Okay.”

They pick up dinner on the way back to the house. They eat with Stiles’ dad, who then sits on the couch with them and watches television until 10:15, at which point he goes and changes into his uniform. When he comes back out into the living room, he reminds Stiles to bring out the spare set of sheets for the couch and tells Derek where the extra towels are too.

“Thank you,” Derek says calmly, and the Sheriff leaves.

It’s surprisingly simple. Stiles didn’t think it was going to be this easy, just—making out on the couch and pulling each other up to the bedroom. He thought maybe Derek was gonna want to talk about it, but no. They sit there, on the couch, for the better part of an hour, kissing and touching and trying to fit each other’s hands down the other’s pants.

Derek has him pressed up against his own bedroom door by the time he realizes what's what. Derek's got a hand down Stiles' pants and his mouth on Stiles' neck and he's whispering dirty, beautiful things.

“Let me, yeah? Let me suck you off,” he breathes out against his ear. “I can do it, I know I can. Say yes? Say yes.”

“Fucking Christ,” Stiles rasps, head slamming back against the door. “Yeah, yes, of course.”

Derek peels off his own shirt before he drops to his knees, dragging his hands down Stiles’ sides. He tugs the hem of Stiles’ shirt up, nuzzling at his stomach, and Stiles pulls the fabric up over his head so Derek can do whatever the hell he wants.

Derek unbuttons his jeans and tugs them low on his hips, untucks Stiles' dick from his boxers in a way that makes Stiles blush and go dizzy. Derek is only guessing at what he's doing, licking like a cat at milk at the head and holding the base like freaking microphone. His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks and Stiles doesn't think he'll last more than a few seconds when Derek finally wraps his lips around him and sucks, spit dribbling at the corners of his lips.

He’s dedicated, Stiles will give him that. He’s completely intent on ruining Stiles’ life, on ruining his stamina, on ruining his dedication to his sanity. So Stiles can do nothing more than grip Derek’s shoulder, maybe push his hands through his hair a little bit, try not to embarrass himself, try not to come too quickly.

Derek has one hand on Stiles’ cock, another on his hip, keeping him pressed against the door while he bobs his head, licks his way across Stiles’ length. Stiles could probably break the hold if he wanted to—maybe, he’s not actually sure since, well, Derek is a werewolf—but he won’t. He doesn’t want to do anything to deter Derek from what he’s doing right now.

Except he's about to come and Derek, Derek isn't the Greek god porn star of his fevered dreams, Derek is sixteen and earnest and trying to cling to Stiles with desperation. So Stiles shoves lightly at his shoulder. “Dude, dude, I'm gonna come, you wanna—oh, God, shit—you wanna back off.”

Derek backs up, wipes his mouth. His lips are shiny with spit and abused red. “I want to try,” he says.

Stiles blinks. “What?”

“I want to try to swallow,” Derek says, and Stiles feels like he’s been punched in the gut.

“You don’t—you don’t have to. I mean, that’s kind of—”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek grumbles, and then he’s guiding Stiles’ dick back into his mouth like it’s a fucking popsicle that’s gonna shoot ice cream at him.

He sucks pointedly, using his hand at the base to tug, stroke, and Stiles groans, squeezing his eyes shut tight.

He doesn't want to look away so he tries, he really does, but he only ends up closing his eyes again and banging his head against the door when he comes. He loses a few seconds, the feeling of blacking out is uncomfortable to be sure, but the shaky, loose-limbed feeling in his body makes it worth it. When he's able to make sense of the world again a couple of seconds after, he finds Derek bent over and coughing, his eyes red rimmed and watery.

His legs are already weak so it’s easy to drop to his knees and grab for Derek’s face, thumbing away the tears from the corners of his eyes.

“Shit, shit, shit—you overachieving motherfucker. Fuck, Derek, you didn’t—you shouldn’t have—” He sighs. “Are you okay?”

Derek waves him off, still coughing, and Stiles cups his face, waits. “I’m fine,” he croaks. “I’ll do better next time; I wasn’t prepared.”

His eyes are red and there's come on his chin and on his chest and Stiles thinks if he could, he would be hard again already. He kisses Derek, the strange state of himself making him curious.

“Do you still want?”

Derek grabs his face and kisses him, rough and shaky. “Yes, yes. I want to.”

Stiles doesn’t ask, not yet, what exactly “it” is that Derek wants. But he figures there will be time for that. There will be time after they get into bed, after Stiles kisses him into the pillows and undresses him as fast as he possibly can. There will be time.

Derek’s cock is—and Stiles never thought he would ever describe a cock this way, but—beautiful. Just, the kind of dick that people wrote songs about in ancient times, and Stiles is already ducking his head to lick at it before Derek’s pants are completely off.

Derek tugs him up. “Don’t, I—fuck, I want to last.”

Stiles laughs into his neck and then kisses under his jaw. “What do you want to do? What do you want me to do?”

Derek bites at his lip as his eyes shift over Stiles' face. He leans up and gives him a quick dirty kiss before he turns over, his chin resting on folded arms.

Stiles loses it for a moment. “Wait, Derek, no, that’s not—”

“You don’t want to?”

“Of course I want to,” Stiles says breathlessly, “but that’s—you already—”

Derek turns onto his side, looks at him. “If you think I’ve never—I’m not sure how open my older self was with my masturbatory habits, but I’m—I’m under no illusions of being straight, and I haven’t been since I was, like, thirteen.”

Stiles gulps. “I just have a very, um, dominant idea of you.”

Derek laughs, his chest shaking with it. “Dominant? Why would I be—no. That’s not how I was born into my pack, that's never who I was meant to be. But if—if that's what you want I can totally—I mean.”

Stiles kisses him, darts in to seal their mouths together. “If this is what you want, I’m completely into it.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, smiling. “It’s what I want.”

“Come here,” Stiles says, tugging Derek forward and into his lap so Derek is straddling him. Derek’s facing the door, Stiles the wall, and Stiles just hold him there, kissing him patiently for a long time. Eventually, he maneuvers his way to his headboard, grabs a little bottle of lube from its secret hiding place.

Derek grabs for it. Stiles keeps it out of his reach. “I can do it,” Derek protests.

“Yeah. So can I.”

“Should I be on my stomach?”

“No,” Stiles says, wrapping an arm around his middle. “I want you right here.”

When he leans back, he can get right where he needs to. Derek busies himself by kissing Stiles’ cheeks, throat, neck, nose—any part of him that he can reach. All while Stiles pushes slick fingers inside of him and wonders what he ever did to get this lucky. He thinks maybe it’s some kind of karmic retribution, the world looking at his shitty life and his shitty past few months and saying, hey, have something good for once.

And Derek is good. Derek is dedicated and funny and kind and he was that way before he reverted back to sixteen, too, Stiles knows. But—this is him fresh off tragedy, coping, living, and he’s beautiful.

Derek is riding three of Stiles’ fingers before he shoves Stiles flat on his back and settles himself over him.

“Wait,” Stiles says. “It would be—I mean, if you want me to—”

“I have pretty powerful muscles, Stiles,” Derek says dryly, “I think I can handle it.”

“Okay, fine, but—condom. At least.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “There's nothing you could have that could hurt me, but if it'll make you feel better.”

Stiles licks his lips and nods. As long as they're making bad decisions, it makes sense to have some sense at least in this one thing. He reaches for one and rolls it onto himself, hissing a bit before Derek moves and positions himself. He scrapes his fingernails down Stiles' chest.

“Ready?”

“Whenever you are.”

It’s not like they’re launching a missile. They’re just—fucking. And it’s not even the first time for either of them. There were a couple weeks after Malia left Eichen House that they were having sex every day, and Stiles already knows—Kate. So, really it shouldn’t be anything important. But it is, because it’s them, because Stiles is so far gone over him already that he thinks he’s going to lose his mind. Because in this last year of people apparently finding Stiles attractive all of a sudden, he never thought a sixteen-year-old Derek Hale was going to be one of them.

Most of what Stiles can do is kiss him. And do his best not to come. And despite Derek’s promise that he was strong enough, Stiles can feel him whither, feel when Derek’s thighs are tense and his body doesn’t want to rise anymore with the effort, and so Stiles rolls them, trapping Derek underneath him, and Derek hums pleasantly, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ shoulders.

“Don’t stop,” Derek sighs, and Stiles laughs.

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

He likes the little contortions of Derek's face as he drives into him, likes the little breaths he's literally fucking out of him.

“You're so perfect like this,” Stiles breathes out beside his ear. “Just let go, Der. I've got you.”

Derek drags Stiles’ closer, hiding his face in Stiles’ neck. Stiles doesn’t stop. He pushes, kissing the area of Derek’s skin he’s allowed, and he just—he just steels his jaw, grips Derek’s thighs, and breathes his way through it as Derek nears orgasm.

When he gasps, digs his nails into Stiles’ neck, Stiles can feel the tightening of his body, the wet warmth splashing up against his stomach and Derek’s, and that’s when he loses it, knowing that he did that, knowing he made Derek come like that.

“Shit,” Derek breathes out. “You—you actually—”

“Yeah,” Stiles laughs, pulling him closer. “Yeah, what did you expect?”

Derek pushes himself up, but not far enough away for Stiles to pull out. He's blushing, smiling, perfect. “You feel—that feels good. Weird but—” He bites his lip.

“Good,” Stiles says.

Derek nods. “Yeah.” He licks his lips, angles in for a kiss, and Stiles kisses him back. “How big’s your shower?”

Stiles smirks. “Let’s find out.”

Somehow, washing Derek down is almost as intimate as being inside him. It scares him a little, the way Derek turns his back to him and leans his forehead against the shower wall, the implicit trust in the gesture. The way he lays his hand over Stiles' when he rubs the soapy water onto his skin. He can't help but drape his body behind Derek's, his hand moving in lazy circles over the hair in Derek's chest as he breathes in the scent at the back of his neck.

Later, when Derek puts on Stiles’ BHHS Lacrosse T-shirt and crawls into bed, Stiles joins him and thinks about how different their lives would have been if Derek had been their age, if they had all been around during the fire, if Scott knew Talia, had a real Alpha when he was starting out. Of course, then he might never have been turned.

“What are you thinking?” Derek asks, curling in close to him.

“Nothing.” He scoops Derek against his chest. “Get some sleep.”

“I have to go back out to the couch before your dad gets back in the morning.”

“He’ll live with it,” Stiles says against Derek’s temple. “We sleep now, worry later.”

 

* * *

 

They never find the time to worry later because it’s only a couple hours of shut eye before Scott and Lydia are calling them frantically, telling them to get to the high school immediately. They’d gone back, thinking they could look for other clues under the cover of darkness, but they had been met by ugly, slobbering creatures—the same ones they fought on the night the Hales’ money had been stolen.

To be completely honest Stiles has seen Derek Hale try to hand-to-hand combat his way through monsters before and he's seen him get his ass handed to him, but this is probably the most amazing he's ever seen. He's slashing and kicking Berserker butt and when they're dead enough to look away, Scott is the first one to notice that Derek McGrumpyPants is home.

Stiles is still sitting up against a wall, unsure how much blood on his clothing is his own, but everyone is quiet, and so he thinks everything, for now, is fine. He looks up towards Scott, hoping to get some help because his leg feels funny, but when he raises his gaze, Scott is staring at Derek, who is now 25-year-old Derek, wearing a T-shirt that’s a little tight around his arms. And then, because the world isn’t fucking weird enough, his eyes glow yellow.

“Derek.” Scott jumps up and puts his hands on the man's shoulders. “Are you okay?”

Derek stares at him for a moment. “I'm fine. Where is everyone?”

“I think we're good for now,” Scott says, “but seriously are you all right?”

“I said I'm fine,” Derek growls. “We need to get rid of these.”

He turns, but the hulking bodies he'd knocked down have already disappeared. Stiles just—stares. Just stares because he feels, suddenly, repulsed with himself and terrified and ashamed and he’s nervous enough that he needs to avoid looking up at all so he looks down at his legs instead and sees a large, gaping wound bleeding red, from the side of his knee to his ankle.

“Hey,” he says shakily. “We, uh—I think maybe I need to go to the hospital now.”

Scott nods, barely paying attention. “Derek, are you all right to drive Stiles to my mom? She's on duty. I don't want you around Peter or on your own right now.”

Derek nods. “That's fine, I'll take him.”

Stiles is about to tell them never mind, he's more than happy to bleed out where he sits, but Derek already has one of his large hands wrapped around Stiles' arm and is pulling him toward the Jeep.

He has a moment of panic about getting blood on his upholstery, but it won’t be the first time and it won’t be the last, and he’s actually developed a pretty solid technique of getting it out now, so he thinks he’ll be okay. He doesn’t realize that he’s said all of this out loud, however, until Derek interrupts him.

“It’s not a deep cut,” Derek says. “They’ll just bandage it. That’s why Scott wasn’t even worried.”

“I thought he seemed a little too apathetic about the fact that his best friend was bleeding through his jeans.” He tilts his head back in the chair. “Not that he doesn’t have other things to worry about. Lydia’s okay, thankfully, and Scott’s gonna go talk to Chris Argent, I guess, so that leaves me to be the wounded, and I’ll get bandaged and then Mrs. McCall is gonna call my dad and he’s gonna come running down and ask what the hell I was doing out of the house and—”

“Stop talking,” Derek says, and Stiles’ chest aches. It really is back to normal.

“So do you—I mean what do you remember?”

“Losing consciousness in a cave in Mexico,” he says.

Stiles could start crying, he really could, but the quick clever rational part of him knows this is great, this is the best news. “So the last couple of weeks...”

“I'm fine, aren't I? Figure Scott looked after me.”

Stiles licks his lips and swallows the dry ball in his throat before he nods and looks out the window. “Yeah, we had your back.”

Derek helps him into the ER and Melissa puts him on a bed in a big room, cleans off his legs and smacks him on the back of the head.

“You’re fine,” she says. “It’ll be sore and you should change the bandage because it’ll be bleeding for a little while, but it’s not deep enough to need stitches.” She looks at Derek. “Welcome back,” she says. “Where’s Scott?”

“He’s talking to Chris Argent,” Derek tells her.

“Do you have to call my dad?” Stiles asks.

Melissa glares. “Go home, get in bed.”

Stiles sighs. “Yes, ma’am. Thanks.”

The whole ride is silent, even when Derek parks in front of the house and raises an impatient eyebrow. “Well? I have to get back to Scott.”

Stiles closes his eyes, he just needs to hold it together for a few more minutes. “Are you sure? Scott said you shouldn't be by your—”

“I can make it to Scott just fine,” Derek sighs. “Will you get in the damn house?”

For a moment, Stiles just sits there.   Then, “Bring the Jeep back tomorrow, okay? And it wouldn’t kill you to put some gas in it since you’re the reason I’ve had to go through a full tank in the last few days.”

Derek grunts. “I’ll tell Scott you’re okay.”

Stiles just slams the door and wobbles into the house.

He doesn’t break down. He doesn’t cry. He just—sits on the ledge of his shower, scrubbing away some dried blood with a washcloth, thinking about how he’s going to forget Derek in his bed. He leaves his dad a note on his bedroom door, that Derek’s back to his usual self and Stiles is going to be sleeping until he can’t sleep anymore. Then, he crawls into bed and stares at his ceiling until exhaustion wins out.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes up, his dad is brushing the too long hair out of his eyes. “Hey, kiddo.”

Stiles jumps just slightly before groaning at the light. “Morning, Dad.”

The Sheriff gives him one of those sad not-smiles. “You okay?”

Stiles sniffs and rubs the sleep gunk off his eyes. “Yeah. Peachy keen.”

“He doesn't…remember?”

“No,” Stiles snorts, “new traumatic experience avoided.”

The Sheriff sighs. “Look, kid, I’m not an idiot, okay? I know you two were—that he was—interested.”

“We don’t have to talk about this,” Stiles says, sitting up. “It’s over. We were pretty sure he was gonna turn back eventually, and we didn’t know how much he would remember after that, so that’s that.” He stretches dramatically. “Wanna go to the Waffle House?”

“Stiles.”

“Hm?”

“I’m sorry.”

Stiles smiles. “It's okay, Dad, I'll be okay.”

 

* * *

 

Things go relatively back to normal after that. Which means, of course, that Stiles ends up hanging by his wrists with Kate Argent talking great big villain dialogue circles around him.

“He was a cute piece of ass wasn't he? My father always frowned upon the way I got into the Hale house. Practically bestiality, he would say. But then there must be a reason all those farm hicks do it, huh?”

“You are so many levels,” Stiles spits out, “of fucked up disgusting I can't even with your sociopathic ass.”

Kate just grins at him. “I have to say, I wasn’t trying to pick you out of your friends. I was trying to get the little kitsune. Cute, isn’t she? Scott’s little girlfriend. But, hey, his best friend will do just as well, I think, if not better.”

Stiles spits at her feet.

She talks more about Derek, about Scott; she talks about the Berserkers and the money and transforming Derek to get the triskelion. She talks about manipulation and cowardice, about how poor, innocent Derek would give anything for her. And was he still willing to give anything?

“You don’t know,” Stiles realizes.

“What don’t I know, pumpkin?”

“Don't worry,” he coughs, feels the stream of blood moving down his chin. “You'll find out soon enough.”

 

* * *

 

The next time he can open his eyes he's horizontal, which is a huge plus. Malia is bent over him, her eyes worried and shining blue. “Are you alive?”

He tries to sit up but decides that's the worst idea ever conceived and manages to nod. “M'totally okay. Where's Kate?”

“I ripped her intestines out,” Malia says easily, face still worried. “Scott is burning her.”

Stiles blinks. “Right, okay. And everyone else?”

“Everyone else is fine,” she says. “We’ve been looking for you.”

“Yeah, well, I’m fine too.” He stares up, past Malia’s head, and sees a dark blue sky with stars. “Did you carry me out of her lair?”

Malia nods firmly. “You’re pack,” she says.

 

* * *

 

Scott barely leaves Stiles’ bedside. He only needs to rest for a little while, get his strength back, remake some lost blood, but Scott—Scott brings him water and juice and food and watches videos with him and plays video games. For four full days, Stiles is under the rigorous watch of his father and Scott, and by the time Melissa announces they’re allowed to stop babying him, Stiles is practically pulling his hair out.

Sometimes he just needs some alone time. And his Jeep is in the driveway, his body has healed, and he just wants to go out to the preserve and sit there for a little while, bemoan his pathetic life.

It had felt like everything happened so fast, Kate appearing, breaking him open just to punish him—the pack—for everything. And he’s pissed, because he should’ve been paying attention, should’ve known. Instead, he was weak, a vulnerable member of the pack, dragging them down with him.

He’s sitting in a tree, legs hanging out straddling a branch, when he hears the footsteps on the leaves.

“You doing better?”

Stiles peeks down and feels his stomach drop, but he does manage to smile. “My, my, is that a tone of concern?”

“I need Scott's help tracking Peter down,” Derek says. “He's been busy almost a week.”

Stiles snorts. “Well I'm sorry my convalescence was such an inconvenience.”

“Stiles.”

He looks down again, arching an eyebrow. “What?”

“You wanna come down here?”

“Not really,” Stiles says stiffly. “You wanna come up here?”

Stiles doesn’t actually expect him to do it, and so he isn’t surprised when Derek starts walking away. He is surprised, however, when Derek takes a running leap up onto the tree and swings himself onto the other end of Stiles’ branch.

Stiles stares. “If the branch breaks because of your fat ass I’m blaming you for my inevitable broken limbs.”

“The branch is fine,” Derek says. “Are you?”

“Your worry worries me,” Stiles answers. “I'm completely fine.”

“Okay.” Derek nods. “That’s good.”

“Jesus, Derek, what do you want?” Stiles finally snaps.

“I was just—nothing. I'm glad everything is back to normal.”

“You don't even know what happened,” Stiles can't help saying. “You don't even know what you're talking about.”

Derek doesn’t look away. He looks straight at Stiles when he says, “I lied.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Why am I not surprised by that? You’re a natural liar. What’d you lie about this time?”

“About not remembering what happened when I was sixteen.”

Stiles swallows his tongue. “What.”

“Stiles—”

“No,” Stiles says firmly, holding up a finger. “No. No, you don’t get to—no.” He swings his leg over the branch and starts climbing his way down, telling himself he’s not going to feel shitty about this right now. He doesn’t get to show weakness in front of Derek right now, not after he just got done recovering from his last weakness.

“Stiles, dammit, wait a minute,” Derek growls as he lands gracefully behind him.

“No. No, no, no, no.” He jerks away when Derek tries to grab his arm. “No, Derek, you don't get to fuck around about this.”

“You wanna talk about fucking around?”

Stiles feels his chest freeze. “I'm sorry. God, you're right, I'm sorry I'm shit. I'm shit. I was going to tell you, I—you deserved to know what I did.”

“I wasn’t exactly a passive participant,” Derek argues. “It’s not—calm down, you didn’t do anything wrong—”

“I did everything wrong!” he nearly shouts. “You were sixteen! I’m practically as bad as Kate! And I didn’t even care!”

“Stiles, what the hell, you're barely seventeen yourself,” Derek says as he takes hold of his arm. “I'm not—I'm not trying to tell you that you did something wrong, I just—I don’t think—that was then, all right? That—this—it worked then, but it won't now. You understand that, don't you, Stiles? You're a child.”

Stiles tugs his arm back. “I am _not_ a child!”

“Compared to me—”

“Do you even—you guys weren’t the same person, you didn’t share the same fucking emotions—”

“I’ve wanted you for months,” Derek says on an exhale, and he looks distraught about the whole thing. “Since—since Allison’s funeral—and even before that it wasn’t like I never noticed you.”

“It's not the same—”

“It's not,” Derek agrees, “it just could have been that way. I could have been that for you but I can't now; that's not the person that I turned out to be. You deserve better, Stiles.”

Stiles is just—angry. That just makes him angry. Because it’s not Derek’s fucking business, he doesn’t get to decide what’s good for Stiles and what isn’t and he says as much to Derek. “And furthermore,” he adds spitefully, “I think you need to get over yourself and realize that the only reason you’re pushing me away right now is because you’re embarrassed.”

“Stiles—”

“No one’s gonna say anything!” Stiles says. “No one cares that you had a moment of idiocy and found me attractive enough to make out with.”

“You think I care what people say? People know! Scott keeps telling me to talk to you, your father—”

“Is that what this is then? Because I'm fine, Derek, I'm perfectly fucking okay.”

“Well what if I’m not?!” Derek demands, and his voice echoes throughout the trees. “What if I can’t stop thinking about you? What am I supposed to do then?”

“Then you shut up, get over yourself, and kiss me,” Stiles says in one long breath.

Stiles stands there, breathing like he's run a marathon and about to do just that in the opposite direction when Derek pulls him forward and kisses him. It's different, there's nothing familiar about it at all. It's rough and claiming and it sends a shiver up his spine, but there's no hint of the gentle boyish nerves Derek had had previously.

He can feel the rough bark of the tree up against his back as Derek presses him there, keeps him still as he kisses him roughly, desperately, and Stiles tangles his fingers in Derek’s shirt, dragging him closer. They stand there for a long time, wrapped up in each other, and Derek’s mouth is hot, wet, perfect.

“Derek,” Stiles rasps, pulling his mouth down Derek’s neck.

“Yeah?”

He smiles, pulling back. “That’s what I thought.”


End file.
